I have no wings, yet I soar through the stars. I have no voice, yet I speak of ancient wars. I build empires from ink and paper walls, And summon dragons to echoing halls.

A climbing dancer in the garden, wrapping around with grace, bearing juicy gifts from fertile soil.

A playful retort. An alluring dress Or smothered on your meatballs To make a mess.

I help to stir with a steady pace, I bring light texture into place. I whip up peaks both soft and brisk, what tool am I within the mix?

It is often asked if I match the drapes.